


you fell out of the sky like a rocket

by whataboutmycape



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutmycape/pseuds/whataboutmycape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took a day for them to search him out. Men in suits, built even sturdier than the best hockey players he’s shared the ice with. Angry, squashed faces, with dead eyes. Strong grips. He had no choice. </p><p>He was so stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you fell out of the sky like a rocket

**Author's Note:**

> ugghhhh
> 
> i'm not happy with the ending and no matter how many times i rewrite it i will never be happy with the ending so i'm posting it anyway 
> 
> this starts off right after the 2011-2012 season 
> 
> enjoy guys

Ilya hasn’t been…. _ignoring_ his phone, perse. He’s just been busy. Fuck whatever Alex said. He doesn’t know anything, okay?

He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “When did it come down to this?”

It doesn’t seem like it’s been over a year already- a year since he was truly happy and content with his life. So much has changed since then, he can hardly believe it. Ilya’s heart breaks all over again when he thinks about it.

They had been sloppy that year. Not as careful as they usually were. Who could blame them, though? They were drunk off their own success, coming off the high supplied by an amazing playoff run. They were in the _Stanley Cup Finals._

Looking back on it, Ilya thinks that only should have made them even more cautious. God, they were so _stupid._

Losing it all in Game 6 was the worst thing. They completely fell apart. He remembers how he felt as he watched the time tick down. Each minute passing made him sicker and sicker. He felt horrible as he watched his team slowly just… give up. His stomach felt like a stone as the game went on and the bench got quieter and quieter. There was such a thick air of uncertainty, of restlessness. They shouldn’t have gone out like that. This game should have gone differently. After this it would be over.

He doesn’t know what was harder that summer; losing a chance at the Cup…. or losing Zach.

Just the thought of the name make his chest tighten up, vivid memories assaulting him. Ilya buries his head in his hands and gives up trying to shove all of the thoughts away.

He remembers the exact moment he realized that Zach was going to be a free agent. He remembers them talking about it, all these ifs and whens and afters floating around, everything uncertain and unsteady.

The last time they talked about it… Ilya remembers it. God, how he wishes he doesn’t. The memory of that day, of how it felt, was fucking horrible.

Zach told him no more. Zach told him they’re over. Zach said he was leaving.

Ilya ran. He ran away from that day, ran away from the team and their questions, ran away from Zach, ran away from everything. When he landed in Russia, it was like he could breathe again.

That feeling only lasted so long.

Ilya was glad to be rid of the American press. He was glad to be rid of all the attention, all of the questions, just- everything. He was glad to be home.

It took a day for them to search him out. Men in suits, built even sturdier than the best hockey players he’s shared the ice with. Angry, squashed faces, with dead eyes. Strong grips. He had no choice.

He was so _stupid_.

The man sitting across the table shouldn’t be familiar to him. Ilya shouldn’t know the man across him as well as he does. There’s a file folder sitting on the table between them. It’s pushed towards Ilya. He doesn’t want to look at it, afraid of what he’ll see. Of what they saw.

He opens it quietly.

And nearly throws it across the room.

There are pictures inside. Pictures of him. And pictures of Zach. They’re all pictures of them… _together._ Them sitting together on the same side of the island in Zach’s kitchen, leaning into each other. Wrapped around each other on the couch in Ilya’s house, sharing a small smile. Them kissing; at Zach’s, at Ilya’s, tucked away at the rink, that one time in Branch Brook park in the dead of winter, and _how the fuck did they even get these?_

The pictures make Ilya’s heart hurt and his blood run cold. He tries to calmly tuck the photos away, but his hands are shaking. He closes the folder and nudges it back towards the center of the table.

The threat is as clear as if it had been screamed. He knows the political talk, knows how Russia feels. Knows about the laws that might be coming into play soon.

The room had been quiet. It still is. Ilya breaks it. “It is not a problem now.”

“Good.” The man leans forward, elbows on the table. “We wouldn’t want to lose our star player now, would we? Not with the Olympics only a few years away,” There’s a tilt to the sharp smile on the man’s lips. “That could’ve gotten a bit… messy.” It’s a challenge, one Ilya can read from a mile away. He quietly turns his face down, and doesn’t step up to it. He won’t fight this, he can’t. It isn’t even worth it to. Not anymore. The man sits up straight again, pleased.

He is dismissed.

The lockout announcement is both a saving grace and a vice for Ilya. On the bright side, he gets to stay home longer. He gets to stay in Russia with his family, and maybe even get to play for them again, if things last that long. (If he’s honest with himself, he’s really just glad to be away from Zach. He isn’t ready to see the gap in the roster and the locker room and their numbers. Isn’t ready to miss him on the ice and at the arena and in his bed. Doesn’t want to think about it right now.)

Alex gives him shit for it. Calls him up and croons to him about his ‘American lover,’ and calls him out on his bullshit when he just flat out doesn’t answer. He’s annoyed, but he takes in the familiar teasing with a small smile. At least things stayed the same in that aspect; that’s still something he can count on.

The downside is the men in suits he now suddenly sees popping up in his life. He is watched much more obviously now- or, maybe it only seems that way because he’s aware of it. There are meetings and offers thrown at him, threats wrapped up in business figures and sugar coated in sharp smiles. He shouldn't have picked up the pen.

Some time along the line, a season has come back into play. Granted, it would be a short one, but it’s still a season. It’s still a reason for him to go back. Ilya shouldn’t dread it as much as he does. Hockey is his life, his career- he should be happy about this.

And it’s not that he isn’t, it’s just that- well. He almost wishes he didn’t have to. But this is his job, his team, even with pieces missing- this is _hockey._ This is something Ilya’s always been able to do, so he goes.

At first, it isn’t bad. Ilya thinks maybe it’ll be alright. Then he sees the magazine.

It’s some stupid gossip thing, he can’t even remember the name of it now, but he’d recognize the face on the cover of it anywhere. It was Zach, dressed in a different shade of red and green and happy. He was leaning into someone else, another one of the Wild’s players. Suter, Ilya thinks, but then tries to forget. He tries to forget the whole picture. Tries to forget the whole summer.

Hockey is a constant for him then, like it always has been. A rock. Something steady to fall back on. He spends more time at the rink than he does at home, and it’s okay. At least for a while. The Prudential Center became a second home for him quickly once he became a Devil. The town was another thing entirely- there were a lot of words you could use to describe Newark and nice was not one of them- but ice is ice and the Arena always made him feel comfortable for some reason.

He tries not to think too hard about it. To be honest, he’s afraid of what the answer really is. So he ignores it, and just focuses instead on the ice under him and the stick in his hand. There’s pucks strewn all over the place, on this side and that of the red line, crossing through the face off circles, tangled in the net.

He takes a deep breath and shoots.

They don’t make it to the playoffs. After the half of a season they played, it doesn’t come as a surprise to anybody. A disappointment, yes, but not a surprise. Ilya walks into the dressing room at the end of their last game and dreads every minute he’s in there. This part is going to be messy.

He strips his equipment off mechanically. No one is paying him much mind, everyone is too wrapped up in their own heads, wrapped up in a season that they all wish had never happened. Travis is on the bench next to him, head in his hands. Across the room, Marty is unstrapping his pads with his head down. Patty hasn’t even taken his jersey off yet. Ilya takes a deep breath and looks around before standing up. He will miss these guys.

Pete’s office door is propped open. Ilya knocks and walks in.

Ilya is in Russia when Lou makes the announcement. His mother wastes no time in calling him and he tries to put on a front for her, to make his voice sound happy. He doesn’t think he’s very believable.

Alex doesn’t even call. He shows up on Ilya’s doorstep, a bottle of vodka in hand, and doesn’t wait for Ilya to step aside and let him in. Alex is quiet while he walks through the kitchen and gets out two shot glasses. He’s quiet when he pours two shots and hands one to Ilya. He’s quiet when he pours another.

It’s after that he starts talking.

“What happened, Ilyusha?” Alex meets his eyes and Ilya finds himself at a loss for words. He just stares silently, and something of what he’s feeling must be conveyed because Alex, for once, let’s it go. He pours them both another shot and slides it towards Ilya with a knowing look.

“He was worth the NHL for you,” Alex says instead of drinking. It isn’t a question.

“I am retired. I am getting old,” Ilya deflects, and instead of looking at Alex he just reaches for the vodka bottle. “It will be nice to play a full season for Russia again.”

“You were happy with him, Ilyusha. Don’t forget that.”

Ilya doesn’t think he ever could.

When he wakes up the next morning, his head is pounding and there’s a text waiting for him. He thumbs it open and almost drops his phone.

It’s from Zach.

_Why did you leave?_

 

 


End file.
